They were both outlaws.
One more so than the other – depending on which view you take.
Outlaws who found a common ground in a place where perfection and originality were conflict, both feeling as though they didn't belong, that something in this re-established world was wrong.
Running to or Running from? Killjoys always seemed to be running but never seemed to know why. But when one is in the desert, unaccompanied and in the moment, there's a sensation you get which you can't ignore, you don't question it, you run.
Originality was radiating from her as the sun blared down on the empty barren land. She had not been paying attention whilst she roamed through the desert her black boots worn and dusty, pondering as to how everything thus far had happened, how it was a game of chance as to who survived. Blindly chosen by fate or luck… or plot as was discovered when the white doused Better Living Industries company emerged after the bomb was dropped. As a consequence to these momentarily unimportant thoughts she didn't see the white van pull out till it was too late.
There was a screech from the right where the white van emerged at an alarming speed from behind a desert boulder, the sliding van door opened, with three distortedly masked men emerging quickly dashing towards her, arms raised ready for battle, determination radiating from their bodies. She sprinted for her life leaping to dodge the knives and claw like hands reaching for her, narrowly avoiding capture as the soldiers proceeded to collide into each other yelling cusses at her as she sprinted off dust trailing behind her, in hopes of escaping and finding help.
Behind a boulder away from the scene a masked man sat, attempting to resolve an inner conflict whilst listening to the noises emerging from where the van was, half in anticipation half in fear. He waited listening to the sounds of commotion as it reached a peak resulting in grunts and yells of anger, ones which were being hurled in his direction. It appeared that she had out-skilled the others, the sound of her sharp breaths and footsteps nearing. Do I chase her? Should I just run and leave? I could escape now if I wanted… *Beep* DON'T JUST SIT THERE! AFTER HER *Beep* the command was given and instinct set in, he leapt out as she passed tackling her to the sandy ground. She kicked and punched fighting her way out of this sudden death grip, whilst he proceeded to pin her down towards the dusty ground reaching for his cuffs. She attempted thrashing her body trying to throw him off, her face pressed to the ground.
He had her right where he wanted – but it didn't feel right, he hesitated as he went to put the cuffs on her – what am I doing? Why was it always him that ended up being the one to cuff the supposed "offenders"? It's not as though he tortured them, or looked after them – and he always seemed to make the decision at last minute as the others had repeatedly stated to the sergeants and leaders higher up.
This was her chance – she threw her body sharply managing to elbow the offender in the stomach before he could snap on the electric charged hand cuffs, throwing him off she clumsily starts to run again only to come to face with the other comrades of the tackler back for another try. All dressed in white – so much for the colour of hope.
They formed a blinding white half circle around her forcing her back towards the white van which had pulled up behind her. She looked at all the masks trying to see how she could get out of there. She reached for her ray gun – willing to injure in order to escape – but as she put her hand in her jacket to grab the gun, the driver of the van had sneaked up behind her, stabbing her in the thigh. In a swift movement she twisted her upper halve flashing the ray gun & shooting the attacker in the shoulder causing him to immediately let go of the knife and clutch his own wound. In the same amount of time, another of the white clad men stabbed her in the back. She instantly dropped her ray gun as the nerves in her arm became severed from the blade and proceeded to swing her left arm around to hit the culprit –hitting him in the head – when she started to feel a tingling sensation from the back of her head. Black and colourful spots started to cloud her vision as she began to sway her body to falling, face down towards the ground, driving the knife in her leg further in as her body completely shut down.
Months she spent in that hell hole. And Months he spent watching. Watching as she suffered at the hand of those who were trying to "fix her" – to make her the perfect citizen to fit in with this perfect city, to have no worries about the difference between happiness and sadness, humour and anger. They weren't needed in a perfect world, only a smile on the face was required. They say she's broken and that they can fix her again. Like she's a china doll that's been dropped or a broken vase, you can try and fix it but everyone can see the scars from the break. So they proceeded to try 'fix' her, bit by bit. He watched and watched. She talked to him one day. Didn't say much, but she knew. "Just promise you'll end it before goes too far".
Just promise you'll end it before it goes too far.
How far was "too far", what does she mean by "end it"? Weeks passed again and he watched as they increased their "fixing" 10 fold. Abuse. That's what it was. And he was part of it. Standing by and watching, witnessing as she slowly grew more and more lifeless, her personality seeming to be drained from her. The day came where it had gone "too far", he watched the soldiers drag her body, which no longer resisted their commands. She looked up at him. Her eyes. Once sparkling with energy, life and blue – now grey, lifeless and flat to look into. He had to look away, guilty as to how long it took for him to see that they had destroyed her. Taking her spirit.
10 hours. That's all it took – for him to fight for their freedom. To escape, her body draped over his shoulders. He walked and walked. Not knowing where they were heading. But they'd found their starting line. And that was enough.